"Maud--dear, dearest Maud--have I said that which pains you?--I do not understand all this, but I confess there are secrets to which I can have no claim to be admitted--"
"Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all, must sooner or later be spoken of openly among us. I believe that to be a copy of a miniature of my mother."
"Of mother, Maud--you are beside yourself--it has neither her features, expression, nor the colour of her eyes. It is the picture of a far handsomer woman, though mother is still pretty; and it is perfection!"
"I mean of my mother--of Maud Yeardley; the wife of my father, Major Meredith."
This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine herself, when she came to think over all that had passed, and it brought the blood to her companion's heart, in a torrent.
"This is strange!" exclaimed Willoughby, after a short pause. "And my mother--our mother has given you the original, and told you this? I did not believe she could muster the resolution necessary to such an act."
"She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and my father, a month since, put some papers in my hand, with a request that I would read them. They contain a marriage settlement and other things of that sort, which show I am mistress of more money than I should know what to do with, if it were not for dear little Evert--but, with such a precious being to love, one never can have too much of anything. With the papers were many trinkets, which I suppose father never looked at. This beautiful miniature was among the last; and I feel certain, from some remarks I ventured to make, mother does not know of its existence."
As Maud spoke, she drew the original from her bosom, and placed it in Robert Willoughby's hands. When this simple act was performed, her mind seemed relieved; and she waited, with strong natural interest, to hear Robert Willoughby's comments.
"This, then, Maud, was your own--your real mother!" the young man said, after studying the miniature, with a thoughtful countenance, for near a minute. "It is like her--like you."
"Like her, Bob?--How can you know anything or that?--I suppose it to be my mother, because I think it like myself, and because it is not easy to say who else it can be. But you cannot know anything of this?"